Posts Tagged ‘directing’

The Opening

Sunday, July 13th, 2014

You sit alone in the dark of an ornate theater, front row center. The massive stage sits empty, curtains swung open, adorning the sides of the performance space like a pair of french doors folded into the inside of a well consolidated room.

The folds of the deep red fabric run horizontal, dipping and rising like a valance into nothingness. The unusual arrangement gives the illusion of the stage as a long tunnel, which in the darkness appears infinite.

An earthy, metallic effusion lightly permeates the stale air. It reminds you a bit of how the cellar of your grandmothers old farmhouse always smelled, but lighter here, less overbearing. Occasionally, a whiff of ancient popcorn deftly slices through, or the smell of your own deodorant.

You notice in the stillness the sound of someone breathing, and wonder if it’s you.

Before you have a moment to correlate your insufflation with the noise, a soft, melancholy organ begins to play, a kind of uneasy tone in the depth of its knowing. You search around the theater and see no one, not even in the booth.

The idiopathic music warmly chills you, like a stranger who effortlessly identifies a tender secret you’ve done everything you can to hide, before you’ve even had a chance to stop shaking their hand. It feels, somehow, like family.

You are startled nearly to your core by a loud hissing sound and a splash of movement along the distant edges of the stage. Through the near blackness you make out the soft grey vapor of the theaters’ multiple fog machines crawling across the stage floor, like a sooty, ominous blanket that sees you with no eyes.

You cannot explain why you know, for certain, that it is alive.

You cry delicately from one eye at the sudden memory of your long-deceased uncle’s laughter. In one moment, the sound of him seems to take residence in the height of the massive room, bouncing frantically like a large bird who took a wrong turn and trapped itself there. In the next, the sound, and the emotion, are passed through.

The living soot blanket that sees without eyes has reached the floor. You instinctively raise your shoes to your chair, suddenly feeling as though you were very small again, avoiding the grasp of the monster under your bed. A momentary sense of claustrophobia washes over you as you pull your knees tightly to your chest.

You notice the center of the stage rising, like an excruciatingly slow backsplash from a single drop into a pool of thick black water. The fog wisps down its sides, channeling around the expanding elevation like a trickling stream, anonymously washing the music away. The scent of sulfur flashes by so quickly you can’t tell if it is real or your mind playing a trick on you. Despite your eyes having acclimated somewhat to the dark, you squint, attempting to see better.

The expansion forms into a shadowy torso, which then slowly outstretches its muscular arms, spanning nearly the entire length of the stage. You find you are unable to take in the immenseness without turning your head to look down the length of them, down to its two clenched fists.

You can see its shoulders gently rising and falling as it breathes, and immediately recognize the corresponding sound and being a much louder version of the breath you had heard. The figure partially raises its head, brow lumbering low, bowed in a fierce silence.

Though powerful and masculine, the figure appears to be trapped as part of the stage, its belly and legs snaking endlessly behind him, barely risen above the fog, disappearing down into the red velvet tunnel. You feel certain The Trapped Man’s eyes would be piercing directly through you with their intensity were they open rather than squinched tightly shut.

You feel a tender compassion in the pain of the forms scrunched face, yet find yourself selfishly thankful for that mercy, anxiously weighing the possible cost of being confronted with two open windows into this excruciated soul.

Rage is thick and heavy in the air, swirling tendrils of sickness and misery dripping with tar. It’s filling up the room with heat and foreboding. You realize you’re shaking and at some point have forgotten to breathe.

That constant companion of your increasingly hysterical inner voice now petrifies in stunned silence, the transition as stalling as a room full of humming electronics suddenly losing power. A slightly electric tingle rushes your skin as the enormous figure jerks its head skyward. The Trapped Man opens his massive mouth, fast and counterfeit like a nutcracker, expression twisting further into ferocious suffering.

He lets out the impossibly loud, devastatingly anguished scream of a very small, very terrified child.

You realize now that his eyes are sewn shut.

You squeeze yours closed, unconscious to your mirroring of the tormented screamer, pulling your knees in tighter, suddenly compelled to become as tiny as possible to fight against the weight of the noise.

All in a day’s work

Sunday, June 1st, 2014

I pulled down my acrylic and water based visual art show today and put it right back up a couple miles away; Currently Showing at Broadcast Coffee: June 1, 2014 – August 1, 2014. 1918 E Yesler Way, Seattle, WA ‎
(206) 322-0807 ‎ ·

A few things didn’t make it. For starters Black Cat watercolor was adopted by Christi, and Orion, the round bubbly acrylic, was also spoken for during my last show.

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As well, my watercolors Brown Cat, Neil’s Owl, and Untitled Boot all have new homes at my office.

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And though neither of my pieces that were displayed at SEAF this weekend sold, I gifted Penned One to David Jones, one of my favorite poets, who incorporated poetry about both of my pieces into the Poets Tour at the festival today.

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Add in the fact that I directed the performances at the Festival this weekend, (can you tell I’m all important like with my radio thingie?) and, well.. I’m not really sure why I’m still awake.

Goodnight, Grandma P.

Friday, May 30th, 2014

In addition to directing the performances this year, I have two small pieces of work that were juried into the Festival (first time), and have modeled for Jim Wilkinson’s installation “Stall”, as well as being the model in the photograph Jim Duvall chose to be in the show as his Masters of Erotic Art piece in the festival.

Today I am most thankful, however, that no matter how stressed or overstretched the task may mean I am, each performance production I direct invariably gives me at least one opportunity to console and remind a troubled artist (as well as myself) that I do what I do because art heals.

Break many legs, and have a great Seattle Erotic Art Festival, everyone.

Seeking ambient/interactive performance for Seattle Erotic Art Festival.

Wednesday, February 19th, 2014

Performers! It’s time to start thinking about Seattle Erotic Art Festival! Our Festival dates this year are May 30, 31, and June 1, at the Seattle Center Exhibition Hall.

Performance Director, Courtnee Papastathis, wants to collaborate to create performances which explore and express the themes and emotions within the art that is chosen for the Festival.

Courtnee is cultivating a list of established Seattle performers who are interested in lending their talents to collaborating with her in that fashion. Ideally, you are experienced, versatile, and able to be flexible and take direction.

Email to officially let Courtnee know you’d like to be on her short list of performers who will be invited to preview the visual art, and build their expression upon the themes therein.

REQUIRED MEETING DATES: There will be a meeting scheduled in early April to see the art that the jury selected and workshop how you might adapt your talents to represent a theme among the artwork. Sat April 26 11a to 3pm is our rehearsal at the Center for Sex Positive Culture.

NOTE: Not all performance must be inspired by the exhibition art. The Seattle Erotic Art Festival is also seeking an array of musicians and performers for ambient and mainstage performances. This is your chance to perform for an audience that is discerning and interested in works not generally offered to the public. Please submit through the website at for this purpose.

Minor, soon to be.

Monday, August 26th, 2013

Many thanks to everyone who has been responding to my question: What immediately comes to mind when presented with the phrase “Inner Child”. The profundity of the subject matter in my work often becomes clear only in the moment when I finally start talking with others about it.

I have some great inspiration and ideas to flesh out the 20 minutes of rock solid skeleton I already had for the show. Your responses are both reminding me that there are so many different ways to experience the world and also helping me feel less alone in both my struggles and my vision.

Trending #InnerChild subjects: Puppetry, simplicity, captivity, loss, hindrance, food, deep wisdom, toys, curiosity, cannibalism (really!). Particular thanks to Neil Gaiman for RTing me on twitter, I received a vast response and awesome feedback from that.

I am sorta having a pretty intense emotional response from all the answers I’ve been getting in the last couple hours on twitter. Like kinda crying and overwhelmed and heavy. There was as much positive reaction (fond memories, forts, mud between toes) as negative (evil, lonely, helpless) to the question itself and some of the answers were very chilling or otherwise effected me deeply.

There had to be a puppet scene and now I have more ideas on how that might look, and some ideas on the lighter side of our inner little people which I don’t have as much experience with and needed help to envision.

But I think mostly, I’ve never experienced a wave of attention like that before, especially of subject matter that’s so near to the people sharing it. It was kinda big and right now my inner voice is reminding me to be careful what I wish for.

I like to live always at the beginnings of life, not at their end. We all lose some of our faith under the oppression of mad leaders, insane history, pathologic cruelties of daily life. I am by nature always beginning and believing and so I find your company more fruitful than that of, say, Edmund Wilson, who asserts his opinions, beliefs, and knowledge as the ultimate verity. Older people fall into rigid patterns. Curiosity, risk, exploration are forgotten by them. You have not yet discovered that you have a lot to give, and that the more you give the more riches you will find in yourself. It amazed me that you felt that each time you write a story you gave away one of your dreams and you felt the poorer for it. But then you have not thought that this dream is planted in others, others begin to live it too, it is shared, it is the beginning of friendship and love.

You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to nourish yourself and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and into writing. Permit yourself to flow and overflow, allow for the rise in temperature, all the expansions and intensifications. Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terrors, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them. If it seems to you that I move in a world of certitudes, you, par contre, must benefit from the great privilege of youth, which is that you move in a world of mysteries. But both must be ruled by faith. – The Diary of Anais Nin, Vol. 4: 1944-1947

If interested in preliminary music concepts for #Minor the [working?] title of my #InnerChild show, I’ve publicized – this, incidentally, was the last time I played the song – 11 days ago. Must have needed to let things settle a bit.

Here we go..

When I was just a little girl…

Monday, August 26th, 2013

Want to help me flesh out some specifics from a scene in my newest show?

Please respond with what immediately comes to mind when presented with the phrase “Inner Child”.

Mine was: Inconvenient asshole.

If London is a watercolor, New York is an oil painting.

Wednesday, June 12th, 2013

“For in that city there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy.” ― Evelyn Waugh

The New York subway has its own distinctive scent, like a cocktail of black tar and metal shavings, that I immediately find familiar and comforting every time I retun. You’d think it would mostly smell like pee and refuse, but for the most part it doesn’t.

I was periodically thankful for having that sense memory, and generally a lot of time, the half dozen or so instances I took the train in the wrong direction during the week I was visiting; also a bit of a staple experience for me here.

In the first day I was back, I remembered one of the reasons I considered moving to New York City – all the free stuff on the streets! Within a few blocks of walking a neighborhood, there’s always some motley crew plethora of building materials, toys, electronics, old furniture (much of it antique) and, of course, actual trash laying around. I remember fantasizing about having to purchase nearly nothing for my shoebox apartment should I have moved, back in 2005.

I also remembered one of the reasons why I decided not to move to New York City; There’s, uh, fucking trash everywhere. And with trash, comes vermin, which is also everywhere, including squashed on the streets and scurrying across all manner of floors, sometimes even near my stuff. Humph.

Slow Start

For various reasons, including working my way through the antibiotics I started in Sacramento and actually getting a ton of shit done in between, I spent a couple entire days in PJ’s (or rather, the clothes I slept in, because I didn’t really bring PJ’s) without going out or eating much of anything. With the exception of a few days in which I had plans already, I found that I didn’t have the motivation to do much, and was rather steadily depressed with a few spikes of life in between.

Sitting alone in a small, tidy NYC diner. A white nondescript plate of steaming corned beef hash that most certainly came from a can sits half eaten in front of me, its ridiculous portion blanketed in eggs over medium. I’m listening to Dido seeping from the ceiling, remembering my trip to Toronto when I listened to her a lot. The cold, mostly, and the alone time on the vibrating street cars. My heart is lighter than yesterday, allowing for sweet sadness to spread to my throat and the furrow of my brow. A small wise smile finishes the edges of my lips that feels like a gate to the knowing field. Everybody seems to want to ask me about myself. Perhaps it’s because they know, too. I’ll stay here until the plate is clear. Two more rest periods, I’ll bet. – June 7, 2013

It rained as much as it was nice while here, complete with the signature humidity of an NYC summer, but thankfully it never got agonizingly hot. On the few days it never stopped raining I pretty much hung out in bed with Bejeweled, which I had played for the first time on the plane ride out.

That said, there were plenty of standout times, starting with seeing my friend Rob Paravonian (for the first time in like 6 years) opening and MCing for his friend Liam McEneane’s live show taping at Union Hall in Brooklyn, the day after I arrived. They’re both funny as shit and super sweet – buy their stuff.


On Saturday I went to FIGMENT NYC with Donia, my friend from Seattle whom I originally learned fire spinning from, and my host in NYC. FIGMENT is a giant not for profit public collective interactive free-for-all art event on Governors Island, an amazing retired military base converted into a public park, complete with dozens of huge, gorgeous Victorian era houses and lots of green hilly things. The weather, thankfully, was perfect for it.

The day before FIGMENT (a Friday that was lost to the rain and the comfort of Donia’s guest bed), after looking over the website and really liking what I saw, I sent a little introduction mail through their contact form explaining a small portion of my background in the arts and non-profit work and expressing my interest in putting on a FIGMENT event in Seattle. To my surprise, I was quickly responded to by the Executive Producer and given contact information to be utilized when I arrived.

Within about 3 hours of meeting, wandering, philosophizing and effectively interviewing one another, I was given a nametag, shirt, and was being introduced as “working on Seattle”. Suddenly, I had plans to return for the second day to attend the producers brunch in the morning, which I did, and it was pretty glorious too. One of the things that traveling to the east cost illuminates is just how fucking passive aggressive and flakey people in Seattle are. It’s a wonder anything ever gets the fuck done.

I feel confident that there is intense possibility here, though. Many more things need to fall into place before I know exactly where I fit into the Seattle plans with FIGMENT, however, it’s safe to assume based off my experience with the organizations core assets and many representatives from other areas, including Washington D.C., Boston, Chicago, and even Australia, that it’s rather likely I will be involved in some sort of leadership role in the process. (Unless, of course, I decide to stay in Sweden.)

Hack tha planet, bitchez

After my first day of FIGMENT, and discovering my notable sunburn, I stopped by a place in midtown for some Summercon afterdrinking with my hacker boys, and to pick up the convention badge I never ended up using. I had supposed to attend con and meet up the night before but I simply didn’t feel well enough yet.

I did, however, show up eventually. In turn I got to visit with a few of my favorite people in the world, many of which I hadn’t expected to see, and got a little bit of my drink on.

I was met almost immediately with a pretty awesome exchange with my longtime friend and hobbiest photographer Weld, who happened to notice some time ago that I borrow the SLR camera I often use. He also happens to have a Canon 40D he is not using, and happens to think I need to be taking WAY more pictures. What can I say, the man’s a problem solver – He offered his old camera to me, and I’ll have a 40D of my very own shortly after I settle from my trip. I live a charmed existence indeed.

I invited my distant ex to join us as part of our shenanigans and we ended up having an awesomely entertaining and rather public series of heart to hearts, in which we aired out a lot of the crazy shit we’d pulled on one another, sometimes for the first time since it had happened, and recounted some pretty awesome memories in there as well.

There was a lot of laughing, from both us as well as the people around us who were listening to these tragically hilarious recountings, and a lot of recognition between us. Much Good Stuff was had from our interactions, especially for him, as he’d been slower to process and grow out of the place we were back then and had apparently been holding on to a lot of stuff I’d put down some time ago.

It felt really good, and I was aglow with the familiar feeling of having contributed profoundly to another persons inner world by being generous with mine, though I never stop being surprised when that happens. Nothing we talked about triggered me and I felt a lot of gratitude and connection about it all. It’s sort of amazing how healing admitting to your ex you were kinda happy when you saw he got fat can be.

I ended up spending a night in Manhattan which consisted of very little sleep, not enough dancing, and long awaited connections of multiple types. It was a welcome contrast to the work emails, event coordination mode, recovering from infection, actual work, etc. I got to just be myself for a while, say what came to my mind and be with people who’ve seen it all and stuck around anyway. It really felt great.


Spent some time at MOMA in NYC yesterday, mostly mouth agape at the ridiculous piles of shit that the elite seem to think constitutes as artwork. A few things stood out for me, including an antique slideshowing depicting horrific facial deformities, many appearing to be the result of bombings and shootings to the face in the world wars. Some of them were so brutalized it was difficult to imagine how they continued to exist, missing large portions of their bone structure. Something about it captured me but I couldn’t put my finger on it; I realized this morning that the exhibit spoke to my experiences regarding the uncertainty of the results of healing. I expect a scarless, flawless result from mine, particularly when addressing emotional and spiritual injuries. But sometimes, no matter how much more you fiddle with and stretch your skin over the giant hole collapsing your face in, there comes a time to accept that it’s just always going to be tender and unsightly. Disturbing.

I have decided that most Modern art is a bunch of fucking bullshit, and the Museum of Modern Art kinda sicked me out. It’s almost impossible not to compare my work to the work that’s displayed, and so much of it is SO BAD it’s just unbelievable.

Indecipherable pencil scribbles on torn pages of newsprint? Horrifying greenscreened clunky dancers in garish bedazzled zentai suits on video, chunks of which are invisible because the colors of the costumes matched the screen too closely? Chunky paper with strands of human hair swirled sloppily on its surface and put in a frame? Duct tape squares on fucking cardboard?

It seems that any old piece of trash is modern art as long as you make it a series. Who the fuck decides to put this shit in a museum, anyway – cause I’ve got a pile of my crap smeared to a 2×4 to fucking sell the pretentious fucker.

The one thing we were actually there for, the Rain Room, was an hour and a half wait when the exhibit closed in an hour and 15 minutes. No pictures in the Rain Room for Will and I on Sunday. We decided to try later in the week. BLECH.

A Case of the Mondays

Low energy and fairly uncomfortable, strumming the uke without much direction. I’m traveling, taking antibiotics and have pooped twice all week. Help a sista out and suggest some songs you’d like to hear me cover. If any of them work out well I’ll post the progress to soundcloud.

Once that eventful and potentially life altering weekend was over, New York City spent another solid day raining. The last time I was around these parts for this kind of weather, I spectacularly wrecked on the NJ turnpike with my ex after hydroplaning over a temporary lake I couldn’t see.

That was about 16 years ago now and the sound still shoots me up with adrenaline, but that’s about the only thing that remains in me from our ridiculously abusive (both self, drugs and one another) history, for both of us now, I think, and I found the weather to be almost communicative, like a final nod goodbye to all that fucked up victim bullshit. I found myself wondering if I would still periodically panic when I heard hydroplaning anymore.

Monday also happened to be the day that I traveled farther east in Brooklyn to meet with Dese’Rae Stage of the Live Through This Project (for those who know NYC, I was staying on Atlantic Ave near the Nostrand stop on the A, and went to Saraghina off the Utica stop for my meeting) to talk about life after an adolescence wrought to the core with suicide attempts.

When I had originally contacted Dese’Rae after discovering her project, I was in a pretty solid mindstate. I offered to talk about my experiences because I felt I had a lot of encouraging words and insights that could help people who weren’t feeling that life was very worth living, or were questioning if it was all worth it. I’d been there and done that and was proof that it got better.

Of course, when it came time to actually talk to Dese’Rae, I felt like total fucking shit. I was worn down again, tired, sad, alien, weird, alone. My trip wasn’t freeing and energizing like I was expecting, the time off felt like an emotional prison plagued by sickness and conflict, all these fucked up emotions kept surfacing and for much of the weeks leading up to this commitment I’d been stifling tears and avoiding feeling what was calling them out.

As I sat at the table with her chatting and occasionally advising about the administrative challenges of her project, what felt most real to me as my time to speak and be recorded loomed in the distance was how hard it still is. How hard it is at least a portion of almost every single day of my life. How hope for living is a constant battle, a constant struggle to remember that year that gets farther and farther in the past where I didn’t see suicide as an option, or a concept that was just at my fingertips, at the ready, waiting for me to slide down far enough to have nothing but it to cling to. How hard it is to remember the tiny strands of that reality, to remember when I feel bad that it is possible for me to feel better, for what felt like a long time, and maybe some day if I work hard enough I might feel that way again.

So, that, and ideas and insights surrounding that, was what I talked about, once I got through the basics of my history, which took a while in and of itself. I’ll be interested in seeing what she chooses to include in my story on the projects website, which as far as I can figure is about 6 months off from being published. I’m glad I did it, and I know I will be touched by what comes out of it. For now, though, I am comforted by the fact that I’m likely to forget about it entirely in the meantime.

The Final Act

This vacation, thus far, has turned into a lot of work, very little movement/exploration, and laptop forearms. Considering unplugging entirely while in Sweden.

The last few days in NYC were pretty typical. I slept a bit, scheduled a shoot in Sweden for the 17th, checked a lot of email and took Donia for Indian food as a thank you for letting me crash at her place.

Will and I did get some good pictures in the Rain Room exhibit first thing in the morning the day I left, and I was reintroduced to SnapSeed, which I had tried but didn’t really get into before, for post processing arty images.

Up at 7am preparing for a second crack at getting into the MOMA rain room exhibit to have some pictures taken of me. After that, a final couple of hours in NYC which are likely to include central park and stopping by the piano stores I noticed in the neighborhood last time. Then back to Brooklyn to pack up, and the long flight to Sweden.

I had the opportunity to play a Yamaha C7 grand piano at the recommendation of my friend and musical collaborator Aaron Marshall, who suggested I try a Yamaha after reading about my experience with Steinways. We hit up Central Park for a walk and some ice cream and had a ridiculous lunch at a place called the Jekyll and Hyde club in Times Square. It was good to see Will again, it had been since 2005 that I had, and he is what one might call Good People.

The plan is to return to New York for FIGMENT next year. We shall see. I have a lot of travel, still, this year, and next year might need to be a year that I stay home and tend to my various businesses. Especially considering a majority of my commitments in the near future include SEAF and FIGMENT which are volunteer. I really need to figure out how to get paid for this shit.

Packing up and soon to be out of communication until July. If you’re planning on having any big news or have something to say to me before then now’s the time to speak up. Otherwise, see you on the flip side.

Given my penchant for spiraling into the social networking abyss, I will be offline apart from updating my blog until I return from my trip.

Call to Action: Help us bring you SEAF 2013

Monday, March 25th, 2013

Most people who will read this won’t need me to explain what SEAF is, or why it’s important to our community. You know and love the festival in both similar and different ways than I do, and have your own reasons to cherish and support it. Through constant growth, different venues, directions, and focuses, SEAF has been a fixture in many of our lives for over 10 years.

What I like most about the Seattle Erotic art Festival is that it provides opportunity for people to experience erotic art in ways that generally aren’t available to the public, and to be deeply, often profoundly affected by that experience. This includes the patrons, guests, and volunteers, often including the artists who participate as well.

Moreso than many a conventional art festival or gallery show, I believe that SEAF has and will continue to transform the lives of the people who discover and honor their humanity through the unique opportunities it presents. This event holds a special, complex place in my heart and the hearts of many, many others both in the Seattle area and far beyond.

Last year, in its 10th anniversary event, the Seattle Erotic Art Festival stretched significantly, spanning to two weekends. It was incredibly successful from the point of view of reaching out to more people, giving them an opportunity to learn about the Festival and the Foundation for Sex Positive Culture, the 501(c)(3) organization which puts the Festival on.

While expanding has broadened SEAF’s reach, it has also made our operating capital extremely low. We have revenue all year long and are budgeted to return a small surplus this year, but our current lack of cash flow means that our management and creative leaders (including myself) are spending too much time averting small crises over money rather than on delivering the event to our community.

We have incorporated much of the feedback received regarding what our patrons want and what new things you’d like to see. As a creative team, we are designing the whole Festival to be more interactive and soulful, having intimate settings and ambient performances rather than a large stage show, and showcasing the artwork consistently throughout the event. Through this process I am often giddy with excitement at what we have in store for you.

With that said, I would like to take this opportunity to remind you that we are always gratefully accepting donations of any amount through the following avenues:

  • Checks mailed to FSPC, 1602 15th Ave West, Seattle, WA 98119
  • You can donate by credit card over the phone by calling 206.274.4525
  • Or online through amazon payments

Please also consider becoming a member of the Art Activist Society for as little as $250. This is a way for you to help us now, and also enjoy the benefits of gifts that keep on giving, which include access to next year’s Art Activists Black Tie Affair, the annual Art Activist appreciation event of which I recently directed performances and performed.

Your donations to the FSPC are tax deductible, and will not stop just at helping us ensure that our beloved SEAF happens for 2013 — having a successful Festival also furthers the Foundations mission to promote the many ways sex is beneficial through education, outreach, the arts, advocacy, and research programs that serve the public.

Thank you for considering my request! Please do what you can to help – share this post, donate money, and encourage your friends to do the same.

Courtnee Papastathis / Performance Director
Foundation for Sex Positive Culture

Sunday, March 13th, 2011

I have finally come to the difficult decision: I will not be directing or performing the remount of HASML. Part of my focus on recuperating and getting healthier includes stepping away from supporting Vita while I am unable to truly support myself. It’s unclear what exactly will be happening, but it was important for me to put it out there, and make the decision concrete. No show for me.

How Art Saved My Life

Thursday, December 23rd, 2010

Photo by Chris Clark

“How Art Saved My Life” takes place in a collective mind space. The show is an amplified illustration of the moment in time where you stare into a black hole and choose life. The setting is the mind, in dreamspace, fantasy, plugged into the matrix, whatever you want to think of it. The stories told are amplifications, illustrations, depictions, of that moment, when art saved “you”, and the moments before and after it. The show flows in a liquid motion toward progress and self acceptance and is sure to move, inspire, and entertain.

January 15, 2011 7:00 PM
Youngstown Cultural Arts Center
4408 Delridge Way
Seattle, WA 98126

$15 CASH ONLY at the door.

Current Show | Vita Arts.

It took all the man in me, to be the thug you wanted me to be

Saturday, July 3rd, 2010

I’ve been thinking a lot about attraction, sexuality, and what tends to drive mine, lately. Since putting out an ad and having sex with someone for very different reasons than I’ve generally had sex before, I’ve come to articulate some really interesting aspects of what drives my fucking that formerly only showed themselves as atmospheric and intangible.

After my excursion last week, and noticing a lack of lingering hot thoughts that I normally associate with having a sexcapade, I’ve been thinking that maybe I’m becoming disenchanted with cock. Sex really is like pizza. Most of it is mediocre.

Mostly, though, I think that’s in contrast to my lifelong connection and presumed understanding about cocks, and the desire to have one myself. But I’m definitely broadening my perception on the subject.


Awesomeness abound

Monday, August 18th, 2008

I’m not writing much. Things are great. I’m rather busy with hair orders, paintings, directing my show, choreographing acts, training aerial, performing music, doing spa sessions, learning french (:D), wrapping up my stead at the chiro office and thoroughly enjoying doing what I love to do.

Obsidian opens Nov 15th at LRS and is going to be un-fucking-real. Not only is the show, cast, and the energy around the planning of it amazing, I have the freedom to swap roles between the two main female characters throughout the run.

One is a sparkling starlet who loses her dearest love and commits suicide – the one I identified with while I was brainstorming the show last year. The other is an obsessive murderess who loses what she built on falsehood, as well as her mind. Both of them are dramatized fragments of my personal story. It’s an amazing opportunity to be able to play both. You’ll have to see it twice!

It’s looking solid that I’ll be performing solo silks at a party Halloween night – as the witch Paculla Annia. Umm.. score. Wine and buttsex or death!

Everywhere I go, I see art. My art. It’s in my head and on the walls and in the air. It’s under tables and in my food, gritty under my nails and between my newly fixed teeth. It’s on my tongue and at the tips of my fingers. Its vibrating up my legs when I walk, sweeping across my face as my hair grows.

Mmmm god I love my life. Didja miss me?